


Just a Bite

by Magz (sparklepocalypse)



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklepocalypse/pseuds/Magz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael owns a cupcake bakery, and also he hunts monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Bite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kallysten](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kallysten).



> [](http://kallysten.livejournal.com/profile)[kallysten](http://kallysten.livejournal.com/) totally helped me write this, even though she didn't know what I was writing. So yay, [](http://kallysten.livejournal.com/profile)[kallysten](http://kallysten.livejournal.com/)! ♥ Also, it should probably be noted that my version of a vampire is sorta, uh... Joss Whedon's, combined with that [Ray-Ban ad from the 90s](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASrnHSNwqMw).

Michael owns a cupcake bakery, and also he hunts monsters. This might seem a peculiar combination, but seriously, even the most dedicated of bakers needs a bit of relaxation time every once in awhile.

Christmas is the worst season for the average monster hunting baker. Things get so hectic in the bakery that one often forgets to change out of one's hunting gear before beginning a towering masterpiece of heavily-frosted delights, and, well. He's gotten more than a few strange looks from customers who don't expect the owner of Just A Bite to be dressed like a cross somewhere between ninja and foot soldier. And let's not stop to contemplate the time Michael had to take out a werewolf using just his baking utensils.

One afternoon, deep into one such Christmas season, the bell above the front door of the bakery jangles and a stranger walks in. This is not an unusual circumstance -- after all, the bakery is on the main drag of a relatively large town, and even the most social of bakers can't be expected to know _everyone_. Michael sets aside the hand mixer, dusts his hands off on his apron, and goes to the counter.

"Do you make dark chocolate cupcakes?" the stranger asks.

Michael gestures at the bakery's rather extensive menu. "Among other things," he says. The stranger is tall, with thick eyebrows, a freckled nose, and dark brown hair. He hasn't removed his sunglasses, Michael notices. He wonders what color his eyes are. "I don't have any in stock, though. Would you like to order some?"

"No," the stranger says.

"Okay, well, if you change your mind, the shop's phone number is on the win -- " The bell above the door jingles as the stranger exits. " -- dow," Michael finishes. "That was weird." With a shrug, Michael goes back to his batter.

 

  
The stranger returns the next afternoon, sunglasses firmly in place. "Do you have dark chocolate cupcakes?" he asks again.

Michael sets down the cupcake he's frosting and offers a lop-sided smile. "Sorry," he replies, "I sold out an hour ago."

"Hmm," the stranger says. He turns toward the menu, head tilted slightly, considering.

After a few minutes, Michael's a little concerned that the stranger might've gone into a trance or something, so he clears his throat and the stranger turns back toward him, a lock of brown hair flopping over his forehead. "Do you want to order some?" Michael asks. "If you let me know how many you want, I can save them for you."

The stranger purses his lips. "No, thank you," he says.

As the bell above the door jingles, announcing the stranger's departure, Michael says, "See you tomorrow."

 

  
The following afternoon, it's pouring. As Michael's finishing up a batch of pistachio cupcakes, the stranger ducks into the bakery, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, tucking a black umbrella under his arm. "I would like a dark chocolate cupcake," he says.

Michael holds up a hand. "Wait one minute," he replies, ducking behind the display counter. He produces one perfectly-frosted dark chocolate cupcake and sets it on the counter with a flourish. "I saved the last one for you," he says.

"Thank you," the stranger says. He pulls out his wallet and opens it, producing a crisp five-dollar bill.

Michael shakes his head. "You've been here three days in a row for this cupcake. It's on me."

Wallet and money return to the stranger's pocket. "Again, thank you," he says. He makes to leave, cupcake in hand, his shoes squeaking slightly on wet tile.

"Wait," Michael says, gesturing at the rainy streets. "Eat it here, if you want. You can wait for the rain to let up. No sense getting soaked over a cupcake."

The man nods and gracefully takes a seat in the squashy chair tucked in the corner by the entrance.

Michael returns to his batch of cupcakes. "So, where are you from?" he asks as he spreads a thick layer of frosting onto a cake.

The man does not look up from where he is carefully peeling the paper away from his cupcake. "Chicago," he says.

"Did you like it there?" Michael asks.

After licking the frosting delicately, the man responds. "Not particularly."

"Is that why you moved?" Michael sets the cupcake down and reaches for another.

"No," the stranger says.

"You don't talk much, do you," Michael comments.

"No," the stranger says.

 

  
After that, it becomes a sort of ritual for Michael. Sometime in the late afternoon, he'll set down his work and produce one dark chocolate cupcake for the stranger, who'll eat it while sitting in the squashy chair. The stranger never talks much, and after awhile, Michael realizes that all he's gotten out of him is that he's a former Chicagoan who doesn't follow sports and likes cupcakes.

"So what's your name?" Michael asks one afternoon.

"Pardon?" the stranger replies, like he's surprised Michael's interested.

Michael shrugs. "It's just, you've been coming in here for almost two weeks, and I don't think we've ever properly introduced ourselves." He dries his hands on a paper towel, then steps around the counter and approaches the stranger. "I'm Michael." He extends his hand.

"Gideon," the stranger says. He appears to study Michael's hand for a moment, then shakes it briskly before returning his attention to the cupcake. His hand, Michael notices, is cool and smooth.

"Bad circulation, huh?" Michael asks.

"What?" the stranger -- _Gideon_ asks. "Oh. Yes."

 

  
The next night, Michael leaves the bakery at a quarter 'til ten. He walks the two block distance from the bakery to his apartment quickly. He's already behind schedule and he hasn't even started hunting yet.

Once at home, he quickly and efficiently changes into his hunting gear, straps on a few weapons, and shrugs into a jacket. It's a cold night tonight, and even if he exerts himself hunting, he'll need the jacket between monsters.

He makes his way to the center of town. People go where the food is -- monsters go where the people are. He's never quite understood why everything he hunts has a keen desire to taste human flesh. He's always found a nice, juicy burger far more satisfying. But to each their own, as far as he's concerned. He's just the guy who keeps the monsters in line by cutting down the ones that decide they wanted lom pork more than pork chops.

There's always one exception to any rule, and this is his: a club called Fangs. Michael first heard about it about a week after he went into the business [as a monster hunter, not a cupcake baker]. Why anyone would volunteer to get suck jobs from vampires is beyond him, but the club keeps his roster light as far as bloodsuckers are concerned. Which is a good thing -- as exhilarating as the hunt can be, vampire corpse is _so_ hard to wash out. The dust gets _everywhere_.

A scream from behind him jolts him out of his musings. He turns and runs in the direction of the screaming, one hand already pulling a hunting knife from its sheath. A trash can topples and clatters across the pavement in an alley up ahead, and he rounds the corner into it and stops. Shit. He hates the spiny ones.

He shouts at the monster, and it turns its attention away from its terrified victim, who takes the opportunity presented to flee for her life. And great, it's got giant teeth, too. New plan: broadsword.

The monster growls at him, drool dropping from its fangs to the ground below, where it sizzles in an unpleasant way. It steps forward, eyes glowing in the darkness of the alley. Michael tears off his coat and pulls the sword from its sheath on his back, and the monster leaps.

The next few minutes are a blur of slashing sword and gnashing fangs. Michael finally gets the upper hand, though, and manages to behead the thing before it gets the chance to bite anything vital. He steps away from the corpse, bends down for his coat, and falls the rest of the way over when pain shoots through his abdomen. "Well, damn," he says when his hand, which had been clutching at his belly, comes away wet with blood. He flops onto his back and a pair of shoes enters his line of sight before he passes out.

 

  
He wakes up on a ridiculously soft bed in a dimly-lit room. A lamp near the wall glows just brightly enough to indicate that he's somehow misplaced his shirt, and illuminates a row of neat stitches that stand out in black thread against the skin of his abdomen. Pushing himself into a seated position, he winces as the stitches pull a bit. He rises from the bed and is pleased to note that, despite the blood loss, he's only a little shaky. "Hello?" he calls softly as he approaches the door, which is slightly ajar.

The door opens before he can get to it. "Be careful. You don't want to tear out your stitches."

"Gideon," Michael says. "So this is your place, I take it?"

"Yes," Gideon replies. He's not wearing his sunglasses for once, but the lighting is such that Michael still can't discern his eyes. "You were bleeding," he says.

"And you patched me up?" Michael asks, although he knows the answer. "Thanks. Way better stitches than I've ever been able to do on my own. Nice job."

Nodding, Gideon says, "I was -- _am_ a doctor."

Michael catches the slip and raises an eyebrow. "Vampire, huh?" he asks.

Gideon frowns.

"The sunglasses, the cool skin, the past tense just now," Michael lists, "by themselves wouldn't mean much, but when you put them together..."

Gideon sighs. "Yes," he admits. "I'm a vampire."

"Cool," Michael replies.

"You seem oddly accepting of this, especially for someone who does what you do," Gideon says.

"Someone who bakes cupcakes?" Michael asks.

"Someone who hunts things like me," Gideon replies.

Michael shrugs. "You haven't tried to eat me yet, which means you're probably not going to, and you probably don't eat other people unless they're willing. I don't hunt vampires unless they deserve it, and from what I can see, you don't."

"I could," Gideon says. He steps further into the room and the lamplight catches his face. Blue. His eyes are blue. "I could deserve it."

"Hey," Michael says, "don't try that self-loathing vampire stereotype crap with me, man. I know you better than that. And besides, you like cupcakes too much to be evil."

Gideon smiles a little at that.

"Now where's a guy get a burger around here?" Michael asks with a grin. "And, uh, where's my shirt?"


End file.
